My–The night wind squeaks.
Or is it the air stutters?
An odd creature is formed
aurally, out of suspension
of disbelief and also noise.
Or, parts of an unseen body
displace its environment.
Next to my air-conditioned
and incandescent filters
of walls, roof, wiring.
It is later than I have
promised myself to rest.
But I keep giving myself
extensions. Could it all
be the balancing
liquids of my skull,
my inner ears? That blank
where I am one of the few
who have no mental images.
And so must strengthen
our other senses.
Tag: sleep
Poem for 6 am, at 6:30
We decide again to wake up early.
We want to spend the first hour
of our days intentionally, toward goals,
with a pen. I hear you awake, writing.
I choose to stay in bed, for the second
morning in a row. First,
I was exhausted. Then,
I was listening to birdsong
and your sweet scratches
in the other room,
your yawns.
Making
this poem,
letting
the rest
rest.
Forgetful
When my person comes home late,
and I have the choice:
to curl into sleep I know is good
or into their arms and conspiratorial
whispers, I almost always forget
the tired days, my solemn vow
to crawl into dreams as soon as I can.
In the face of the vows we keep
together. I am forgetting
how it felt to be lonesome
first and foremost. I am able
to get by with fewer dreams
now that I am not all longing.
Insomniacs Have Time to Curse
The lucky people who
thesaurus going to bed
with sleeping
Common Poem 